The Exception
by lucidheart
Summary: In which Mischa Lecter is alive, instead of her brother, Hannibal.
1. Chapter 1

The Exception

_"Hannibal, not now. I told you, I don't feel like playing today."_

_"Come on, Mischa. Please. Just because you're twelve doesn't mean you can't play."_

_She finally gave in to her little brother, and tossed the tiny ball at her feet back to her brother ,who was patiently waiting across the room. He picked it up and laughed._

_"Oh, Mischa. You always do what other people want you to do."_

Mischa Lecter did not look like she was forty-two. On the contrary, she had the looks, physical strength, and mental function of someone half her age. Her appearance, mixed with her Lithuanian accent that most mistook for Russian, gave many people the idea that she was some sort of mail-order bride, not the accomplished psychiatrist, artist, and musician that she was. Her long black hair stayed true without the use of dye, and her unique eyes were without crow's feet. Her boyfriend of six years, Jack Crawford, often teased her about staying so young, and she always attributed her youthful appearance to a healthy diet and to the cold Baltic winters she endured as a child.

"Jack, dear, what would you like for dinner?" she called from her dressing room. She heard him shuffle the newspaper around, sit his coffee down on the table, as well as put his reading glasses down. He would be working late. He wouldn't be coming to explain in person if he would be on time.

"Actually, I think I may be at the office a little late tonight. We've got something that could be interesting that I want to follow up on," he explained while leaning on the door post. "I am very sorry."

She turned and gave a half smile. "That's the third time this week. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had another woman," she said with a cocked eyebrow. For a moment, he paled, but she smiled, letting him know that it was all in a joking manner. He crossed the room and knelt in front of her.

"I know this week is hard for you. It's been, what, thirty years since he died? But it's always hard when you lose someone you love. You were so close with your brother, and to watch him die-that must've been unbearable." Mischa stiffened, and Jack stood to put his arms around her. "I didn't mean to bring that back. I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking."

She lifted a hand and placed it on Jack's head. "It is perfectly alright. Like you said, it has been nearly thirty years. I found a way to deal with my grief a long time ago." She stood along with him, and after embracing for a moment, she broke free. "Hurry now. You'll be late to work," she kissed his cheek. "Go catch a psychopath for me."

He chuckled, but quickly fell serious. He grabbed her hand. "Mischa, what I do is dangerous. You knew that when you first met me. I see horrible things every day, and sometimes, I bring them home with me. It's hard to escape things like that. For years, you've dealt with the nightmares and the late hours and the ever so present risk of one of them coming after you to get to me. But you've never flinched. You've kept me sane all these years."

She was flattered, but taken aback. Jack was not the kind of person that spilled his feelings to anyone. His job working in the Behavioral Science Unit at the FBI didn't allow room for displays of emotion. Working with psychopaths day in and day out, he ran too high of a risk of becoming compromised. After years, his way of hiding emotions had become a permanent trait. He had taken great precautions with their relationship to keep Mischa safe, even refusing marriage, a notion that she shared, but not on the grounds of her safety.

"Jack, what is this about? You never say things like this."

He kept his head down as he continued speaking, "I'm worried about this one, Mischa. This new one...he...to put it simply, we don't know what he is."

"Excuse me?"

"We don't know what kind of killer he is. Our profilers are placing him somewhere in the neighborhood of a psychopath, but he doesn't quite fit the mold," Crawford ran his hands through his hair, then removed his glasses to rub his eyes. After a week of putting in impressive amounts of overtime, he was exhausted and frustrated.

"He does not have to be a perfect psychopath to still be a psychopath, you know. I am a psychiatrist, dear. I know quite a bit about these things. You could bring me in and let me look-"

"No." Jack cut her off, "I am not bringing you on." He softened his tone, and took her by the hand once more. "I don't doubt your ability as a doctor. You're very good at what you do, one of the best in this part of the country. But I will not let you close to this sort of case. It's too dangerous. Now, that being said, I'm off. I'll see you when I get home this evening."

Mischa stared after him, not in a longing manner, but more in an inquisitive daze. He told her not to concern herself with this case, but she knew she had to do something about it. It was too dangerous for Jack. She took a deep breath, and pulled her hair back into a sleek ponytail, her mind already spinning. It was time to get to work, because she knew how hard it would be to stop a train once it's already on the tracks.


	2. Chapter 2

Mischa always purposefully booked her week solid to make sure she stayed as busy as possible. For eight hours straight, she saw patients back to back to back, not even stopping for lunch or some sort of break. Now, after the last client was gone, she was grateful for her home office as she sat back and took a sip of freshly poured wine. From her desk drawer, she pulled a small golden necklace and laid it out in front of her. Her fingers brushed the Lecter family seal that was stamped on the medallion. Technically, she was nobility, with her father having been a count. But her father was no longer alive, none of her family was. Those...pigs had taken care of that. She supposed that if she went back, she could reclaim her inheritance, or what was left of it. But she knew she would never do such a thing. She stared down at her brother's necklace. "Count Hannibal Lecter VIII. You would like it here, Hannibal. The winters are mild compared to what we had." She stopped for a moment to blink back tears forming in her eyes. "You know, I told Jack about what happened to us. Not everything, of course. He doesn't know, Hannibal. He does not know what they made me do to you." She closed her eyes, but scenes from that day in the forest invaded her mind. She quickly came back to the present, downing the rest of her wine, as the door creaked open.

"Tomorrow is the day, Jack. Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day those monsters killed my brother in front of me," she mumbled. She looked up at him with red rimmed eyes. "He was all I had, and they took him from me." Crawford wanted to comfort the woman he cared about so much, but he knew that it was better to keep his distance. He plodded across the plush rug in the center of the room, and sat in the chair Mischa reserved for her clients. On any given day, she was the most controlled person he knew. The only time he ever saw a crack in that facade was on the anniversary of her brother's murder. He cut his eyes over to her desk and noticed that she had already completed a bottle of wine.

"Do you want to hear about our advancements in the case today? We had another one go missing. A physical trainer at a gym over on the east side," he asked, hoping that it would pique her interest and keep her distracted. Mischa could hear the desperation in his voice. He was worried about her, and he wanted to keep her mind off of what was at hand. She allowed it to. She wanted to see how far they had gotten.

For the next few minutes, Jack explained everything that the profilers had been able to figure out about their suspect. "This killer, he's not a typical psychopath in that he's showing emotion towards his victims. Psychopaths usually dissociate-well, you know how they work. Anyways, his killings are aggressive, clearly driven by something. Betrayal, revenge, just plain anger, we don't know. But what we do know is that this guy is a new breed of crazy. No one we've reached out to has ever seen anything like this."

"You know it's a man?"

Jack stopped his fidgeting and looked at her blankly. "Well, I think that's pretty safe to assume, don't you? Generally, serial killers are white males. You know this."

"But what if this person is not a serial killer? You said yourself that you could not classify he, she, it as a psychopath. That you had never seen anything like this-" she put her finger up when Jack tried to interrupt her, "Perhaps you need to try and widen the parameters of your investigation. Consider all the possibilities." She stared at him while he considered this. She knew she was pushing her luck on this case, but it was worth the risk. Jack needed to broaden his mind. She knew that one day he would come across a case where he needed it. "Mischa-," Jack looked up at her, but stopped short of saying anything else. It had been a long time since he had really looked at her, studied her. The contrast between her clear, almost translucent, pale skin and black, feathery hair was striking. But it was her eyes that were her most entrancing feature. Jack didn't quite have a word for their color, but the closest he could come was oxblood, a peculiar mix of red and brown. He had done research when he first met her to see statistics of how many people had maroon eyes, and the results were inconclusive. As far as he knew, she could be the only person alive with this abnormal eye color. They gave her an intimidating presence, and after years of complaints of people feeling discomfort while speaking to her, she took to wearing brown lenses. He had come to love their natural appearance though, and hated her colored lenses as much as she did. In a moment, he had forgotten everything he was saying.

"You are beautiful," he said suddenly.

Mischa furrowed her eyebrows, confused at the change of topic from murderers to her appearance.

"You are, without a doubt, the most stunning woman I have ever seen. You're smart. You're talented. I do love you, you know," he whispered as he pulled her closer to him. "How did I ever end up with someone like you?"

Without an answer, he kissed her, hard. "Well, this is quite a change of pace," she murmured.

He shrugged, "I guess psychopathic killers just turn me on." He laughed, then picked her up and carried her upstairs.


	3. Chapter 3

The basement was dark and damp. The large, muscular man finally opened his eyes slightly. Out of habit, he tried to stretch out, but failed to do so. He was tightly strapped down at the ankles and wrists to a cold, metal table. The surroundings struck him as surgical. But this room was too dark to be a hospital room. He tried to look around to see anything, but outside six foot circle of light around him, there was nothing but shadows. Through unseen speakers, Bach's "Goldberg Variations" was floating about the room. His arms struggled against the restraints while his mind struggled to remember what had happened to him to bring him to this place. He last remembered being in a coffee shop on the east side of town before waking up strapped to a table. He started fighting even harder, desperate to escape.

"There's no use."

The man turned his head to the left where a figure stood on the edge of the light. "What?" he asked.

"There's no use. In struggling, I mean. I went to medical school. Trained at a mental hospital. I know how to restrain people properly. Plus, if you were to struggle too much, you could potentially damage the product."

"Wh-What product? Please just let me go. I have no idea what you're talking about. "

"Oh, you will soon enough." The figure emerged from the light. "They say people like me cannot control our feelings, our emotions, if we even have any. They say we cannot feel anything akin to love or affection. They say we have no sense of remorse or empathy. People assume that because we can detach ourselves from feelings, that we do not have any. That somehow we are not human," the rich voice drawled in an accent he couldn't pinpoint. "I can safely assure you that is incorrect. In my case, at least. I am more than capable of feeling emotions from time to time."

The figure circled the muscular man on the table like a vulture. "I am capable of some sort of love, as well as disgust. But perhaps that is because those two are the poles from which all other emotions extend. Nonetheless, you are here because you made me feel emotions," the figure hissed into his ear, "And I assure you that it was not love that drove me to this."

"Then why are you here? Why are you doing this? Wh-What are you? didn't think that-"

The figure whirled around quickly and placed a knife at the man's jugular. "Put all assumptions aside that you may have about people like me. I am an exception. I am the only one like this, I have been assured. You, however. There are many like you out there. Men who prey on young women," the knife lowered and the man started to breathe again. "The FBI know you're missing. But they don't know who you are. Not really. They do not what I know. They do not know how you held down that fifteen year old girl and raped her while she cried out for her someone to help."

Out of the corner of the man's eye, he saw the outline of a person turn back to the small, metal table that was set up to his left. Petite, deft hands scanned over the instruments laid out perfectly before picking up a surgical scalpel. "They do not know these things," the figure whispered while tracing the scalpel down the man's jawline to his throat and bare chest, leaving a thin line of blood. "But I do. And when I am in need of a good meal, I prefer to eat the rude."

The man's squirming ceased and his eyes widened with fear and realization. "Please. Please don't do this," he managed through tears, "I have a fiancée. We're supposed to get married next month. Please. Please..." His words just faded into sobs.

His killer towered above him, glaring down on him with heartless red eyes. "I did say I am capable of emotions. Unfortunately, sympathy is not one of them."

Quickly and professionally, the scalpel was plunged in and twisted ever so slightly, just so the man's jugular was severed. After the initial spray, the crimson blood flowed into the specially troughs surrounding the table. Mischa took great joy in watching this monster fade from this world. As she turned to gather the storage containers, she wiped her face and came away with blood dripping off her hand. She put a finger to her mouth and tasted the crimson liquid, closed her eyes, and smiled.


	4. Chapter 4

She worked over the body for some time, giving it the treatment necessary for the meat to be ideal. Storing the blood in one spot and the meat in another, she cleaned as she went, assuring that there would be no mess left behind. It wouldn't matter, though. No one had access to this place but her. She was lost in thought when her phone rang.

"Yes, dear?"

"Where are you? I got home early and you weren't here," Jack answered.

"Oh, I'm just out picking up dinner. I did not feel like cooking tonight," she said coolly. "I'll be back soon though. Is Italian alright with you? I should have asked before ordering, but I also assumed I would be eating alone tonight," she sighed, looking down at the meal that would have to wait.

Jack assured her that the meal would be fine with him before hanging up, and Mischa quickly finished up her work. By calling an friend in the restaurant business who owed her a favor, she had picked up her food and made it back to her townhome within twenty minutes. Before getting out of the car, she inspected herself, checking for specks of blood on her body, and double checking her clothes, even though she had changed.

Walking in, she quietly slipped her heels off at the door and plodded into the kitchen. Jack was sitting at the table, back to her, with stacks of papers surrounding him. He had his head propped in his hands, which she knew was his position of defeat. She approached him, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, causing him to start.

"Jesus! You scared me to death. I swear, you make no noise whatsoever when you move. I didn't even hear you come in." He turned slightly, so that he could look at her.

"I thought you said you got off work early," Mischa said.

Jack looked confused, "I did."

She gestured to the papers that covered her antique dining room table. "Are you sure?"

His eyes clicked with realization and he immediately stood, apologizing to Mischa and scrambling to place the papers back in their appropriate stacks and folders.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back to his chair. "Sit, sit. I am not angry, nor am I cruel enough to make you stop working when I know you are very busy."

Jack looked up at her. "I came home early because I wanted to be with you. I have been busy, but I shouldn't be abandoning you," he placed his hands on her waist, and brought her closer to him. Mischa could see the apology in his eyes. If Jack was one thing, he was dedicated to her. It was not lost on her, not in the least. She supposed she loved him, in some form. It had taken her several years into their relationship to realize that she did have feelings, whether it was love, intrigue, or protection. They had met not long after she had moved to Washington DC, and he showed her the town, introduced her to the right people, and six months after they met, he moved into her town house. It had been a difficult experience for her at first, but she soon adjusted, acknowledging the fact he could be, and, in truth, already was, her constant here.

"You are not abandoning me. You are working. You have a killer to find, and since we are on the topic, any luck?" she asked, taking the seat to the left of him.

Once again, a look of total defeat crossed Jack's face and his head fell into his hands. "Mischa, we are so out of our depths here. We have had this case for two weeks now and we have gotten nowhere. He, or she, or whatever the hell it is, is making our department look like fools. Running around, turning over every stone, and still finding nothing. The killings will just keep happening if we don't do something, but, at this point, we have no idea what to do."

She sat there, staring at him. For once, from both a personal and professional standpoint, she had no idea of what to tell him. In an effort to at least offer comfort, she reached out and grabbed his hand.

"In six years, I have never known someone who was as eager about his job as you are. You are _aistringas_. Passionate. People with passion never fail at their task. They work and they work and they work, and then one day, the accomplish what they have been working towards. You will catch them, whoever they are. I am positive. Just be ready for that day." Mischa rose, kissed his forehead, and started walking towards the kitchen. "Dinner will be getting cold. Come now," and she left, with Jack staring after her, trying to search his mind for another time when Mischa had ever sounded that..._aistringas_ about something.

After dinner, Mischa had disappeared, leaving Jack by himself in the dining room, and his mind soon became busy with thoughts of his case, but soft strains of piano music slowly started drifting through the air from the office, interrupting him. He rose and went to find the source, taking his wine glass with him. He cracked open the door to the office to find Mischa standing in front of her massive wall to wall bookshelf, plucking book after book off the shelf until her arms were full.

"Need any help?" he asked. He expected her to be startled, but she continued with her selection without any acknowledgment that he was there. Mischa turned and placed the books on her desk before speaking.

" I know you told me that you were not going to let me work on this case with you, but that is not going to stop me from doing just a tiny bit of research," she said, gesturing the stack of books on her desk. Jack shook his head, walked around and took her hand.

"Fine, fine. You win. You can do your research. But, you stay out of the spotlight. I've told you this is dangerous. I want to avoid your name getting into the papers as a source on this." Mischa rolled her dark, glittering eyes at him. "You can roll your eyes all you want, dear. I'm trying to keep you safe. This guy, he could come after you."

"Or not."

This time, it was Jack who rolled his eyes. He reached over to turn the volume up slightly on the expensive stereo that was tucked into a nook on one of the bookshelves, and then turned back to Mischa, who wrapped her arms around his neck and hummed along with the piano melody.

They stood there, Jack's hands tracing lines up and down Mischa's spine, swaying back and forth, going around in a circle with the music filling the room and wrapping them in a warm, melodic embrace. She let out a deep sigh, and whispered something softly into Jack's shoulder. He stiffened slightly, to acknowledge that he heard her without words. She continued speaking, softly, and Jack realized that she was speaking in her native tongue. He took comfort in it, knowing she only did it when she didn't quite have the right English words to express herself, though she was more than fluent. It had always been a way for her to show him that she was truly satisfied with life. Crawford smiled.

Mischa smiled too, and pulled herself closer to Jack. She knew that he did not understand what she had just said, but it was no matter. She felt warm and comforted. She felt safe and in control. Which is why she had just admitted to what she had done to the rapist trainer from the East Side to the only man who was possibly smart enough to catch her.


	5. Chapter 5

Crawford had used his daily commute to Quantico as his unwinding period every day, to mentally prepare himself for whatever horrific monstrosity would cross his desk each day. He would turn on some old Jim Croce and just erase everything from his mind. He loved his job, genuinely, but at the moment, he would have given anything to be able to throw his phone out the window. Through the past two weeks, he had walked in those doors with the most stoic face he could manage. He had to show he was still in control, even though he could feel it slipping from him moment by moment. Jack was a considerably fit man, tall and muscular, and fit the stereotypical law enforcement type. He knew that all the new trainees looked him up and down when they saw him for the first time. On any given day, he had a stack of letters on his desk, asking, pleading, to work with him personally. He dismissed most of them, though he was not oblivious to talent. He had handpicked his own remarkable team, the best in the agency. A team that was patiently waiting in the conference room for orders from him about the case. No one was sitting down, too nervous to do anything but stand. Jack sighed and cleared his mind before walking in.

"Sit down. We're going to be here for a while. Before I even get to the main point of this, I would like to say that we have done everything in our power to catch this son of a bitch. Eventually, it'll pay off. Now. Does anyone have anything of interest for me?"

Jack spent the next two hours filtering through the various theories and nonsense that was thrown his way, and dismissing almost every one. The agents rolled their eyes over and over until finally Jack gave in and told them all to "get the hell out." He closed the door behind the last person, and turned back to the table angrily, throwing the papers that had been so meticulously stacked and handed to him. He lost the control he had so carefully built up around him. He turned to the board that was spread out behind him, the board that was full of photos and news clippings and crime scene reproductions. He heard his main team of agents come in behind him, consisting of three medical investigators and a profiler. They said nothing, nor did Jack. They stood there quietly for some time, staring at the board, hunting for any piece of evidence that could actually be helpful.

"I see him, Jack. I can see him, but the edges are still blurry. It's like, he's not...in focus. I'm trying though, Jack," said the profiler.

"I know, Will."


	6. Chapter 6

"This isn't easy for me, Jack. It's stressful, it can be painful. No part of this is fun for me. But I do it anyways. So please give me time," Will hissed from his spot in the far corner of the room. The forensic team in the room visibly withdrew from that section of the room to join Jack Crawford on the opposite side, leaving Will Graham by himself.

Jack sighed, defeated by his task to push his profiler to find any more connections between the murders, but there didn't seem to be any. At risk of further annoyance, Jack dismissed himself, and returned to his office to find Mischa waiting on him.

"Well this is a lovely surprise," he said, greeting her with a kiss on the forehead. "What brings you here today?"

"Only seeing you. I only had one patient today, and he cancelled, so I thought I would come visit you. I hope I haven't disrupted anything, Jack. I know it was unannounced," Mischa gestured slightly to the piles of paper consuming Jack's desk and all the surrounding surfaces.

Before Jack could answer, the door opened.

"Jack, I think I-oh. Sorry, I should've knocked."

"No, no. It's not a problem. Will, this is Lecter. Mischa, this is Will Graham. He's our profiler."

Mischa smiled warmly, and crossed the room to shake Will's hand.

"It is very nice to meet you, Mr. Graham."

"And I you. Romanian?"

"No, but you have a very good ear, Mr. Graham. Lithuanian."

They stood silently, sizing each other up for a moment before Jack broke the silence. "I'm so used to her accent that I don't even notice she has one anymore. I'm always caught off guard when someone mentions it, more so than she is, I believe," he chuckled.

Mischa broke eye contact with Will to reply. "It is not nearly as pronounced as it used to be," she turned back to Will, "And it takes someone with considerable knowledge to not automatically assume it is Russian."

Will just shrugged, and Mischa held her stare for a beat longer before turning back to Jack and putting on a smile.

"I will leave you two alone. I am sure you are busy," Mischa moved towards the door, but Jack grabbed her wrist and brought her back to his side.

"No, you can stay. Please." Mischa glanced at Will, and gave in, sitting down in the chair beside Jack's desk and pulling out her phone to seem oblivious to the news that Will was obviously eager to deliver.

Will and Jack resumed speaking to one another, and Mischa's attention danced on the edges of their conversation. She would catch a few words here and there, but focused mainly on various emails that needed her attention. Minutes passed and she tuned back in to the conversation in time to hear Will speaking as excitedly as ever.

"Jack, this killer...he's, uh, cultured, for lack of better word. He's got an eye for art, he appreciates beautiful things. That's why his killings are over dramatic. It's a production to him. He's putting on a show. If he keeps killing like this, it's only a matter of time before he screws up. Something this elaborate will produce mistakes eventually."

Mischa tensed. "Would it be a far stretch to assume that the killer is indeed an artist? Eager to prove his ability to even turn murder into an art form?" she broke in. Both men turned to stare. She stood to continue speaking, "If these killings are as elaborate as you say they are Mr. Graham, would you not think that some sort of artistic background would be needed to bring them to fruition? Perhaps the killer is an artist who has been turned down many times, a failure, if you will, and now he has found the perfect way for people to finally notice his art."

Jack repressed a smile when she finished, and Mischa found some sort of emotion, joy perhaps, in her heart to know that he was proud of her, even though he knew she was more than capable of making the necessary connections. Will, on the other hand, just stared at her once again, face void of any type of expression.

"I failed to mention that Mischa is also a very accomplished psychiatrist, as well as many other things. She's been begging to work on this case, I keep trying to dissuade her, but it seems that I have failed," Jack stated, still smiling.

"I also understand that you are not sure how to mentally classify this killer. Naturally, I believe most would lean towards psychopathy," Mischa continued once again. "But perhaps, Antisocial Personality Disorder is a better fit, with reputation-defending tendencies."

"The two are interchangeable," Will hissed.

"Often, but not always. But of course, we could be lucky enough to have found someone that is quite unclassifiable." Mischa stood straight and tall, looking at Will face on. For a second she thought he would respond by his tense stature, but he did not, instead he exhaled and seemed to give up the fight.

"Every bastard out there is classifiable. We just don't have a name for what this freak is yet," Jack snapped, and immediately looked at Mischa for an apology, willing her to know that his aggression was not towards her. She blinked once, slowly, acknowledging him.

A phone rang, breaking the silence.

"I apologize," Mischa said, reaching for her phone and checking it. "This would be a patient," she smiled apologetically at Jack before collecting her purse and coat. "I will see you at home tonight, dear," she kissed Jack on the cheek, and then turned to face Will. "Mr. Graham, it's been a pleasure." She met Will's handshake firmly and smiled. Will noticed her eyes and her perfectly formed teeth, noting that as attractive as she clearly was, she could have just as easily been intimidating.

"She's something," Jack said, mostly to himself, after Mischa left. Will heard him, registered the words, but didn't respond.


End file.
